


An Oasis in Mayfair

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [23]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley’s Plants - Freeform, Heatwave, M/M, Pining, positive reinforcement, pre-Armageddidn’t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: A heatwave sweeps through London and Crowley’s miserable houseplants are among the casualties. Aziraphale’s solution makes Crowley realise he’s a lot softer than he’d like to be.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 16
Kudos: 110





	An Oasis in Mayfair

Normally the care of his plants was something Crowley required no assistance with. He preferred to keep them thriving (or at least, well-behaved) with routine verbal abuse and generous amounts of hydration, but lately he’d been busy with work (temptations to accomplish! Wiles to conceive!) and then a heatwave swept through the country (damn you, Hastur!), leaving his already-neglected wards in even worse state than before.

“Tchuh,” huffed Crowley disappointedly, feeling the crispness of a drying leaf between two fingers. “Miserable performance, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

The plants seemed to relax, reluctantly. Crowley glared at the warm summer day outside, knowing that every steel surface in London was burning white-hot. Then he picked up his phone and dialled the angel.

“A.Z. Fell and Co., how may I be of assistance?” came Aziraphale’s weary, I’ve-just-about-had-it-with-these-calls voice.

“It’s me,” Crowley said, cutting to the chase. “I need your help, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, hello,” exclaimed Aziraphale, suddenly perking up significantly. “Crowley, dear boy, how are you faring in this heat? I suppose it can’t be nearly as bad as the sulphuric fumes of Hell, but—“

“Can you come over?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s...” Crowley sighed. “It’s my bloody plants, Angel. They’re out here dying on me, like the weak-willed ungrateful bastards they are and I can’t do a bloody thing about it. Heat wave’s frying them crisp.”

“Certainly you know I have far more important things to do than help tend to your plants,” said Aziraphale primly. “Besides, you have more expertise on the matter than I do. And can’t you just sprinkle them with a quick miracle?”

“The little cretins won’t respond to any of my powers,” groaned Crowley.

“Well, that must be because you’ve numbed them with your ceaseless yelling.”

“Aziraphale, c’mon. I’m at my wit’s end. Look—“ he sighed, “if it’s— if it’s a little TLC that’s necessary in this case, you know I don’t do that stuff. You’re better at it than I am, you’re a sodding angel. Besides, between the two of us, which one actually has the ability to heal things?”

“But that wouldn’t be fair at all, Crowley. It’s cheating.”

“ _Angel_.” Crowley’s voice was almost a whine. “Please.”

A short pause as Aziraphale considered, or at least pretended to consider. Finally he said, “Well, all right.”

“Fantastic,” said Crowley, trying to keep the grin out of his voice. “See you in a bit.”

* * *

Aziraphale showed up in his usual waistcoat and overcoat. Crowley tried not to make a face when he answered the door.

“How are you not sweltering in that?”

“Angels don’t swelter. We merely...glisten.” Aziraphale lingered on the doormat, clasping his hands together. “It’s been a frightfully long time since I’ve last been to your place.”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. “Mmm, yeah. Not exactly a public place, unlike your shop.”

“Is that why you often invite yourself unexpectedly?” teased Aziraphale.

“Oi, if you want to make unsolicited house calls to a demon’s lair, then be my guest,” Crowley retorted, and held the door open. “Now c’mon, I got the A/C on.”

Aziraphale glided past him and into Crowley’s sparse flat. No, the furniture didn’t look particularly inviting, and the walls were rather plan and dull. He had art everywhere though, which Aziraphale appreciated— all originals, all stark reminders of just how old Crowley was. “This is hardly a lair. It’s a rather stylish living space.”

“In here, Angel,” Crowley said, ignoring the compliment. He led Aziraphale through the revolving slab door that opened into the plant room, where a high skylight and two long windows let in the glare of the outside world. They were open a couple of inches and let in a waft of hot air.

He gestured toward the browning plants. “Well, there you go. As you can see, all my attempts at giving them a controlled environment aren’t working. They need fresh air, but the air’s too hot. We’re gonna need a miracle.”

“Oh my,” sighed Aziraphale, touching one long, drooping leaf. “The poor dears. They must be suffocating.” Crowley watched, eyebrows raised, as the tiny tree Aziraphale was touching seemed to quiver shyly. Did it...like him?

“Come on, now,” Aziraphale said encouragingly. “Up you get.” The tree stretched up with renewed vigour, all traces of dryness vanishing fast and growing lush again. With a smile, Aziraphale moved on to the next.

“Such a pretty dear,” Aziraphale crooned, and the curtain of ivy perked up as the angel nudged it gently back to health. “And look at this sweet thing. Rather delicate. They must bring you such joy.”

Crowley stuck his hands in his pocket as the large fern Aziraphale was tending to uncurled, its leaves no longer crisp and brittle. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

“Whatever is it that makes you want to yell at these precious darlings? I know they do their best. Yes, you do,” Aziraphale crooned at a particularly parched-looking lily, which seemed surprised that its efforts were being acknowledged. “You certainly do, pet.”

“Angel, c’mon. Don’t be sweet on them. Just...give ‘em a push with that divine grace of yours and we’ll be done.”

“You expect too much of them,” Aziraphale fussed. “In this blasted heatwave it’s no wonder they’re all tired out! And the stress of disappointing you must be unbearable.”

“Right, but we all know I’m not— not the _sweet, sugary_ type,” said Crowley. “I mean, even if I were to be, well, n-nicer...” Crowley pressed his lips together uncomfortably as Aziraphale smiled, amused. “Where would I even start?”

“Here’s a thought,” said Aziraphale. “When you’re talking to them, pretend you’re talking to me.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but turned to one of the plants and said, “Okay. You are a bastard, and I wish I’d never met you.”

Aziraphale chuckled, at the very least. But there was something warm and knowing and gentle in his blue-grey eyes that made Crowley somber, almost like his angel knew better— about what Crowley meant, about the kindness he was really capable of.

“In six thousand years, you may have aggravated me to no end, but you’ve never hurt me on purpose,” Aziraphale said, gently. “No matter how easy it would have been, or how many chances you had. And while I must admit your manners leave much to be desired, you’ve never said a harsh word to me just for the sake of it.” He huffed. “Unlike some archangels.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, knitting his eyebrows together, “who’s been giving you crap? It’s that wanker Gabriel, isn’t it?”

“They’re not nearly as considerate of my feelings as you are,” Aziraphale said lightly. He brushed his thumb down the spine of a palm frond, instantly saving it from the brink of death. “You know, that’s always reminded me that there is a spark of goodness in you, deep down.”

Crowley grumbled but, much like how the other fern curled toward Aziraphale with delight, he felt himself drawn to the angel even more. Nobody treated him with kindness the way Aziraphale did. No one gave him half a chance to be good.

No one certainly ever showed him it was worth it, before.

“They look good,” Crowley blurted out. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Do try to be kinder to the little dears, won’t you? I know you can.”

“Ngh,” was all Crowley said. “I owe you one. We could get a nice, tall milkshake at the cafe down the road.” He paused. “And then I’ll drop you off at home.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Well, I _did_ close the shop.”  
  


* * *

The Arrangement was cushily padded with the comforts of companionship. Crowley used to think of their little excursions as bargaining chips, favours returned in the simplest way possible, or excuses to check up on each other and plan their next moves. Over time it just became a way for them to feel like they weren’t alone. And sharing a table at the cafe with Aziraphale, who chattered away happily and dished Crowley on all the gossip from Upstairs, it was easy to forget, save for the context of the gossip, that they were two celestial beings on opposite sides of six-thousand-year-long conflict. Today they were just a couple of blokes, sipping their milkshakes before all the cream melted on top.

And then Crowley dropped Aziraphale home and the angel waved him cheerfully goodbye, and then it was the short drive back to his cool, empty flat with the plants that had been so graciously given a new start.

On next morning’s watering routine, Crowley actually took Aziraphale’s advice. _Talk to them as if you’re talking to me._

_Okay, then. Here goes._

“You’re my best friend,” Crowley began quietly, “and I’m very glad to have met you. You changed everything for me.” He held up a hand, tenderly stroked a leaf between two fingers. “And I still don’t know how to thank you.”

One day, he promised, the words would find their way to Aziraphale.


End file.
